My mom waited in the parking lot for the library to open at 9:30. Parking lot sitting must be a true rite of passage into adulthood. She walks into the nearly empty library and passes by a young woman returning the second Fifty Shades of Grey book, Fifty Shades Darker. (Seriously, I can’t make this stuff up.) The girl was disheartened by how far back on the list she was for the third, despite thousands of copies being in circulation.
Just returned and fresh on the shelf was the first book, Fifty Shades of Grey. As my mom perused for her next recipe book, mild chic lit, or suspense novel for my dad, the young woman pointed out the Grey book that was just there for the taking. “You really should read it,” she informed my mom. Graciously, my mom picked up the book, read the back cover, politely waited for the fanatic to wonder away and she sequentially put the novel back on the shelf.
Not more than five steps later, my mom was tapped on the shoulder. She turned around and it was the Fifty Fanatic, holding the book, pressing it into my mom’s hands, insisting. “You really have to read this, you have no idea how lucky you are that this book is available.” Not wanting to incite a riot, my mother nodding thankfully took the book and checked it out under this crazy’s watchful eyes.